Itsy-Bitsy
by SpicyCheese
Summary: "You!" He lashes out and his target- a rather ugly lamp- shatters. Sherlock's breathing hard now, frantically looking on the floor around him.


Itsy Bitsy

"No Sherlock _don't_-"

_Bam, bam, bam, bam!_

Sherlock fires rounds in quick succession, eyes blazing. They've been up for hours. Hunting. John removes hands from his ears as the gun smoke clears, both of them breathing hard.

"_Stop_ with the _gun_ Sherlock! Thank god Mrs. Hudson isn't here, you'd have given her a heart attack. Did you really think you could _shoot_ it?"

He whips his gaze to John. "John. We agreed we needed a more aggressive approach." He scans the room from his perch upon the coffee table, gun still pointed towards the far corner.

"Aggressive yes, but I was thinking perhaps something a bit more like-"

"Like what? Poison? A ridiculous and elaborate trap of some kind? This is _serious_, John. We need to end this."

"I know, I know. I'd like to be able to sleep eventually." John gazes back to the corner. "So… did you get it?"

Sherlock licks his lips, eyes narrowed. "One of us should check."

Silence.

"You mean _I_ should check don't you?" No reply. "Sherlock, I'm not going over there." John crosses his arms, as if to accentuate the point.

"I have the gun, I'll cover you." He doesn't look at John, eyes still trained on the corner.

"I am _well_ aware you have the gun, _my gun_ Sherlock, but I'm not going over there."

"You were in a _war_ John. This should be the proverbial walk in the park."

John can tell he isn't going to win this one. "Fine, cover me." He slowly climbs down off windowsill. Sherlock watches as John shakes himself out, all the while eyeing the corner. John makes his way on tiptoe. He can feel his palms sweat as he approaches the corner. Fresh bullet holes punctuate the sheet music still on the stand as well as a few books on the case behind. John feels like his breath is rattling the papers as he gets close. Gingerly, he peeks behind the stand. "No. Nothing." He rattles back to Sherlock.

"Check. Again."

"Check what?"

"Behind those books." John winces as Sherlock gestures, with the gun, towards three books on the floor.

"It couldn't be there."

"It could."

"It couldn't-"

"_John just check it_!" He takes a breath, huffing it out. "There's no point if we're not thorough, we need to be sure."

"Fine." John turns, lowering himself gingerly, inch-by-inch. He reaches out with shaking hands before quickly smacking the books and scuttling back six or seven inches. Both men seem to hold their breath until John tentatively inches back to examine the area.

"_Well_?!" Sherlock cranes his neck-impatient-straining to see around John's crouched figure.

"Nothing. It's gone." John says, standing up and turning round.

Sherlock's eyes grow wide, voice deadpan. "John. Your… shoulder."

There it was, larger than John had remembered and twice as menacing. "Oh." Is all he manages, his mouth making the perfect circle. He feels a lone bead of sweat wind down his spine as his breathing threatens to become ragged once more. His eyes turn back towards Sherlock to plead for help and are faced with the barrel of a gun.

"Sherlock… what are you doing…" John can feel the sweat under his arms now, pooling.

"John, I can do it. We can be rid of him, John, just let me _do it_." A manic smile, wild, growing on his face.

"Put. The gun. Down." Even as he speaks, **It** moves (scuttles more like it) down.

Resting squarely in the center of his chest.

John's arms unconsciously move away, a vertical dead man's float. Sherlock arm follows the offender, now trained on John's chest as well.

"Sherlock."

"John, we can _end_ this." His arm waivers a bit.

"Sherlock, you cannot shoot **It** without shooting me."

"John…"

"_Sherlock_…"

Their eyes burn into each other, standing off. Sherlock blinks slowly, shakes his head as if reawakening. "You are right, of course John."

"Yes, yes. Now can you just get it _please_?!" John smiles as Sherlock places down the gun.

…and then, in one fell swoop picks up the cricket bat and smacks John in the chest. John curls over, slumping onto the ground.

"Did I get him?! Did I get him, John?" Sherlock looks down, still keeping his distance.

"Oooohh…"

"_John, did I get him_?"

John peeks open his eyes. He motions with his head in the direction to Sherlock's left.

"You!" He lashes out and his target- a rather ugly lamp- shatters. Sherlock's breathing hard now, frantically looking on the floor around him.

"Sherlock…" John's rolled onto his side now. With a grimace, he points above Sherlock to the bat he holds high above him.

Sherlock lets loose a singular high-pitched "Yeeeeep!" His eyes now trained on it. "John. What do I do?"

John's finally made it to his feet now. Through gritted teeth, "We have one shot, Sherlock. The window."

Sherlock's eyes dart to the window quickly then back to the object overhead. "Yes. On my signal… go!"

In flash of unspoken movement they run to the window, John flinging it open with both arms and Sherlock heaving the bat en total out, the momentum almost catching him with it.

John joins him at the window and they look out into the blackness. "It's gone."

A moment of quiet reflection passes before both men pull their heads in. Back inside, they stand face to face at the window. Sherlock smirks.

"What's so funny?" John frowns up at him.

"You… jumped up on the windowsill. A rather amusing sight."

"Hmm." John smirks with a sort of triumph, "And if I recall, you screamed like a little girl."

Both men stare.

"Well." Sherlock begins. "Perhaps…Let's-"

"Never speak of this again?"

"Yes." He nods solidly to the shorter man in front of him.

Another awkward beat pulses between them.

"Right. Right well… back to… right." John strides towards his chair. "Oh, and Sherlock," he says, turning around slowly, "I wouldn't be opposed to leaving a situation like this up to the professionals next time."

"Agreed."


End file.
